Mon frère m’a licencié dès mon premier jour, mais je possédais 72 % de l’entreprise familiale…

He could talk his way into anything and out of everything. Teachers loved him despite his poor grades. Coaches kept him on teams despite missing practice. Girls dated him despite his obvious red flags. Family gatherings became Ryan appreciation societies. His stories got funnier. His plan sounded more ambitious.

His next opportunity was always just around the corner, waiting to prove everyone wrong about his potential. Meanwhile, I was working 60-hour weeks building client relationships and actually contributing to the family business. But that wasn’t nearly as entertaining as Ryan’s latest adventure in self-sabotage.

The final straw came when Dad announced his retirement plans at Christmas dinner last year. Ryan immediately started talking about his vision for the company, how he’d modernize operations and expand into new markets. I sat there listening to him pitch ideas I’d presented to the board 6 months earlier. Ideas he’d undoubtedly overheard during family conversations and was now regurgitating as his own insights.

But dad was nodding along, looking proud. You know what, son? Maybe it’s time to give you some real responsibility. Help you grow into the leader I know you can become. That’s when I realized my father confused potential with performance, and my brother confused confidence with competence.

It was also when I realized I’d been playing the wrong game entirely. Getting my business administration degree wasn’t some childhood dream. It was strategic warfare disguised as higher education. While Ryan was flunking out of classes and collecting DUIs like Pokémon cards, I was studying how to run the business he thought he’d inherit just by virtue of being male and charming.

The day I graduated Sumakum Laad, Dad pulled me aside at the celebration dinner. I’m proud of you, sweetheart. Really proud. And I think it’s time you put that education to work in the family business. I started as a junior analyst. Same entry-level position any college graduate would get.

No special treatment, no fast track to the executive floor. Ryan, meanwhile, was living in our parents’ basement, recovering from his latest career transition, which was family code for got fired for sleeping with his supervisor’s wife. My first project was analyzing our supply chain inefficiencies.

Boring stuff, right? Vendor relationships, shipping costs, inventory turnover ratios, the kind of work that makes your eyes glaze over unless you understand that every percentage point of improvement translates to thousands of dollars in profit. I found problems, big ones. Our primary supplier was overcharging us by 18% compared to market rates, but they’d been our vendor for so long that nobody questioned the invoices anymore.

I researched alternatives, ran costbenefit analyses, and presented a proposal that would save the company $200,000 annually. Uncle Richard loved it. Dad was impressed. The board approved my recommendations unanimously. Ryan’s response: Nice work, sis. Maybe next you can figure out why the coffee in the breakroom tastes like it was filtered through old socks. That became the pattern.

I’d solve problems, save money, improve processes. Ryan would make jokes, charm potential clients at company parties, and somehow get credit for having great instincts about people. The worst part wasn’t his indifference to actual work. It was his talent for undermining me in public while pretending to be supportive.

Like the time I was presenting quarterly projections to our biggest client, Thompson Manufacturing. I’d spent weeks preparing, knew every number by heart, had backup plans for their backup questions. 10 minutes into my presentation, Ryan walked into the conference room with coffee and donuts. “Sorry I’m late,” he announced loudly, completely derailing my momentum.

“Tffic was brutal, but hey, I brought sustenance.” The clients laughed, grateful for the interruption. Ryan spent the next 20 minutes telling stories and making everyone comfortable while I watched my carefully structured presentation dissolve into casual conversation. Afterward, Mr. Thompson shook Ryan’s hand. Your brother really knows how to lighten the mood.

That’s important in business. You know, people need to feel comfortable before they trust you with their money. Ryan beamed like he just closed the deal single-handedly. I wanted to point out that charisma without competence is just expensive entertainment. But I was still 24 and trying to be the good daughter who didn’t cause family drama.

When dad announced his retirement plans 18 months ago, I naively thought my track record would speak for itself. 3 years of successful projects, improved efficiency ratings, client satisfaction scores that were consistently above target. I’d earned my place in leadership through actual results, not family connections. But dad saw things differently.

He saw Ryan’s potential where I saw his patterns. He saw leadership qualities where I saw learned helplessness dressed up in expensive suits. I’m going to start Ryan as director of operations, Dad told me privately before announcing it to the board. He needs structure, responsibility, a chance to prove himself.

I think having real stakes will help him mature. Real stakes like the Porsche payments weren’t real stakes. Like the DUI fines weren’t real stakes. like the college tuition he’d wasted wasn’t real stakes. Dad, I said carefully. Ryan doesn’t have experience managing teams or overseeing budgets. Maybe he should start in a supervisory role and work his way up. Nonsense.

Sometimes you have to push people into the deep end to help them swim. Besides, he’ll have you and Richard to guide him, right? I’d get to do the actual work while Ryan got the title and the credit. The same dynamic that had defined our entire relationship, just with higher stakes and bigger consequences.

That night, I went home to my modest apartment, the one I’d chosen based on my salary, not my family’s money, and I made a decision. I pulled out the stock certificates Grandpa had left me, the ones gathering dust in my filing cabinet, and I started making calls. If dad wanted to play family favorites, fine.